


Beacon in the Night

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner proves to be just what Mulder needs.





	Beacon in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Beacon in the Night by Rosalita

7 November 98   
Beacon in the Night  
by Rosalita  
  
Mulder/Skinner  
NC-17 for m/m sexual interaction. If you're underage or offended by this, go away. Also rated A for angst, angst, angst.   
Summary: Skinner proves to be just what Mulder needs. Takes place post-Redux II. Spoilers for Gethsemane, Redux I & Redux II. I promised this story would be finished by the season premiere and, by golly, when I promise something, I deliver!  
Okay to archive at Archive/X, all others please notify me. Thanks.   
Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and FOX Broadcasting. I'm borrowing them without permission. I promise to return them more or less in the condition I found them. No copyright infringement is intended.  
Feedback appreciated and answered at . Flamers will receive a dedication in my next story so make it good.

* * *

Beacon in the Night  
by Rosalita  


I once called Walter Skinner a beacon in the night. I was referring to the way the lights reflected off his bald head. 

Okay, that's not true. I was actually referring to his habit of trying to keep me from dashing myself on the rocks. Poor bastard. Someone should have told him that was a Herculean task no one could accomplish. 

Still, he tried. And never more valiantly than the night I blew a gasket and wrecked my own apartment. Come to think of it, that was one of the few times he actually succeeded in saving me from myself. And it was a good thing he showed up that night. Otherwise, I would have ended up on a psych ward. 

Scully's cancer went into remission that night. The day before, I'd lost Samantha again and been very close to selling my soul to the Consortium. Like Samantha, I'd been lost, and then found, and then lost again. 

My need to find a cure for Scully had overridden everything else. I'd had no time to think about Samantha's brief reappearance in my life. No time to think about the implications of the Smoker's assertion that he was her father. And certainly no time to deal with the fact that I'd killed a man, albeit in self-defense, then blown his face off to cover his identity. Now I had plenty of time to wonder what I'd become. 

Once Scully's remission was certain and the pressure was off, I found myself outside her hospital room, crying over a bloodstained picture of Samantha and me that had been found in the Smoker's apartment. He was presumed dead. 

I don't remember getting up from that cramped plastic chair and leaving the hospital. I don't remember going home nor do I remember much of what happened before Skinner arrived. I know I trashed the place. That much was obvious from the wreckage I saw when I finally got a grip long enough to understand what was happening. The fact that the cops were there and I was on my couch in handcuffs was another clue. 

Walter doesn't believe me when I tell him it was his voice that pulled me back from the abyss I was looking into. He says it was a coincidence and that I'm being melodramatic. The police threatening to take me to the hospital for psychiatric observation is what really did it, he assures me. He's so modest. 

And I suppose it's possible that he's right. 

"Son," a gray-haired member of Alexandria's Finest was saying to me in a voice that was just this side of irritated. "If you don't talk to us, we have no option but to take you in for psychiatric evaluation. Is that what you want?" I wondered without real concern how long he'd been trying to get my attention.

I didn't answer. Everything seemed far away; voices and visions filtered as if through gauze. I stared down at the floor, right at the stain left by Ostelhoff's blood. Jesus. 

Then I heard him.

"I'm Assistant Director Skinner with the FBI. This man is one of my agents. What happened here?" His gruff voice was tinged with worry, and I wondered why he was there. I didn't look at him. I couldn't. I just sat there, terrified, aware of how close I was to being locked up, but not really with it enough to get myself out of the situation.

"We responded to a disturbance call and found your man here tearing the place apart. He fought us, but we managed to subdue him."

"Subdue him enough to bruise him?" Skinner sounded angry, although I couldn't imagine why. 

"He was in a highly agitated state," the officer was explaining. "We tried to quiet him down by talking to him, but it just didn't work. We had no choice but to use force."

"He seems calm enough now. Am I right in assuming that all you've got on him is disturbing the peace and resisting arrest?"

It was odd being talked about as if I weren't in the room, but for all intents and purposes, I wasn't. As far as they knew, anyway. I'd given no indication that I could hear them. If I did, I'd have to talk to them. Although the muzziness was starting to clear, I was too worn out to talk. 

"If we let him go, are you going to take responsibility for him?" the officer was asking, clearly hoping I'd be taken off his hands.

"Yes, yes. Just take those cuffs off him."

Someone pulled me around gently and the cuffs were removed. I covered my face with my newly-freed hands and hunched forward, elbows on my knees. The police left with an admonishment to Skinner to see to it that I didn't cause any more trouble. 

I still didn't look at him, but I could hear him moving around, hear scrapes against the floor as the furniture I'd thrown over was being righted. Papers rustled as he picked them up and put them somewhere. On my desk, probably. 

All the while he was picking up the mess, he was watching me. I could feel his eyes on me and his presence irritated me. I wanted him gone so I could . . . what? Sulk in peace? Curl up on the couch and let insanity take me? Eat my gun like I'd been prepared to do just two nights before? 

"Leave it," I said, my voice shaky even to my own ears. He stopped in the middle of righting one of my kitchen chairs--how the hell it got into the living room, I don't know--and stared at me. 

"You're back," he said softly, still holding the chair which I could now see was broken. 

"I said, leave it!" I growled. I actually growled and came off the couch. He dropped the chair, in order to defend himself, I guess. As if I could do any real physical damage to him. Please. He'd proven to me more than once who had the upper hand when it came to physical confrontations. 

I stopped where I was, not far gone enough to risk getting my ass kicked. "Get out!" I hissed at him from behind clenched teeth.

He put his hands up, palms out, in the manner of one placating a lunatic. Which, I suppose, is exactly what he was doing. "I can't do that, Mulder. The police released you into my custody. I'm responsible for you, at least for tonight."

That pissed me off, and he could tell. How could he not? *I* could feel the anger radiating from me, threatening to burn me alive. 

"It's better than a 72-hour hold, isn't it?" he said. 

He knew the answer to that as well as I did, so I didn't bother. He didn't expect an answer anyway, and he was staring at my feet. I looked down; I was standing on Ostelhoff's blood. Christ. 

I headed for the kitchen--he was right behind me--and threw open the cabinet under the sink. Bleach gets out blood stains, doesn't it? Miracle of miracles, I had some. I grabbed the bottle and a scrub brush and stood. 

He was in my personal space, trying to take the bleach and brush from me. I could see he was afraid, and he told me later that I was pretty manic at that point.

I didn't want him to touch me. I knew if he did, I'd be in his arms in a second. It would be safe in his arms, but dangerous. 

"Leave. Me. Alone," I said through teeth clenched so tight I thought they would shatter. Why couldn't he understand?

He dropped his hands. "I'm trying to help you," he said, still trying to reason with me. 

"You want to help me?" I snapped at him. "Get the fucking blood off the floor. Get it off my hands."

I pushed past him and dropped to my knees on the floor. The bleach poured from the bottle, anointing the stain. I scrubbed so hard, my muscles throbbed from the exertion and my knees went numb.

Distantly, I could hear Skinner telling me to stop and feel his hands tugging on my arm. I ignored him as long as I could, then dropped the brush and swung at him. He grabbed my hand easily and pulled me into his arms. I fought momentarily--for show only, I knew I couldn't win. Didn't want to win. I wanted the haven his body could give me.

I was crying, sobbing. Had been all along. He was rocking me, a steady, steady rhythm, one hand stroking my hair. Muttering nonsense in my ear. Just like Mom had done when I'd been hurt--back when I was little and she still loved me. 

I was tired, so damned tired. I must have fallen asleep on his lap. The next morning I awoke in a strange bed--his, it turned out--and recalled arguing groggily with him over where I was spending the night. He wanted to get me out of my apartment; I wanted to stay.

Apparently, I lost. Sunlight was peeking around the curtains, and he was sitting in a chair across the room lying to Scully about me over the phone.

He smiled when he saw me looking at him. "He's still asleep." He paused, listening. "I told you, he's fine. Just very tired. I'll have him call you when he wakes up. *You* should get some rest." He paused again, then, "Yes, I promise." He sighed, then hung up.

"Now I know how she keeps you in line." He came over and sat on the bed. Too close; he was too damned close. "I didn't think you were ready to talk to her just yet."

I nodded; he was right about that. "Is she okay?"

That smile again, and his voice, assuring me that Scully was fine. It was gentle, perhaps even affectionate. But I didn't want to think about that. Memories of the night before were becoming clearer, and I was mortally embarrassed and edging my way out of the bed even as he spoke. I was hyper-aware that I was nearly naked in *his* bed, surrounded by his scent. That and the knowledge that he'd undressed me inflamed me, and I was half hard already. If he noticed, he had the good taste not to mention it. Or maybe he put it down to a morning hard on. My feet hit the floor and he handed me my clothes without comment. 

"What did you tell her?" I asked as I dressed. I didn't want her to know I had flipped. She had enough problems of her own without having to worry about my mental health. 

"Only that I'd found you and that you were okay. Luckily, a group of med students came in wanting to see the 'miracle.'" He smiled dryly. "She didn't have time to ask too many questions. You're going to have to talk to her sooner or later, you know. She was worried when I went to get you and you were gone. She called your place, but you didn't answer."

"That's why you were there." Mystery solved. 

"Yes, and a good thing, too. They were ready to haul you off. What happened?"

"I was looking for more cameras. I guess things got a little out of hand," was all I was willing to say. I sat on the edge of the bed putting on my shoes, eyeing the door. As soon as they were on, I'd be out of his room and away from his unnervingly concerned gaze.

He snorted softly. "I'd say so. You really scared me last night. Want to talk about it?"

No, I didn't want to talk about it. If I started talking about it, I'd never stop. I'd cry, he'd touch me, and I'd do something stupid like kiss him and that was the last thing I needed. So I said nothing as I launched myself off the bed. I'd nearly made it to the door when he stepped in front of me. 

"Talk to me, Mulder."

Why couldn't he just leave me the fuck alone? Why was he doing this? Say something, I had to say something to convince him to let me the hell of there. "Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Really. Please, I have to go." 

"Things got more than 'a little out of hand,' didn't they? You were out of control last night, Mulder. If I hadn't shown up when I did, you'd probably be on a psych ward right now."

Thanks for reminding me. 

"Am I still in your custody?" I asked.

"No."

"Then if you don't mind, I'd like to go." I put on my best blank stare. I was almost out. At first I thought he wasn't going to let me go, but he stepped aside. 

"Do you want a ride home?"

"I'll take the Metro," I said and fled the bedroom. 

I was down the stairs and almost to the door when he caught up with me. Would I never get out of this place? He was holding out a five-dollar bill. I just stared at it. 

"You'll need this if you're going to take the Metro." He pressed the money into my hand. "Otherwise, you'll be walking to Alexandria."

I patted my pockets. Empty. My wallet was still at my apartment buried under God only knew what. I took the money and was surprised to find myself very close to tears. Crying over five dollars. I was in worse shape than I thought. 

"Thanks," I choked out and then got the hell out of there.

Five dollars will get you a pretty long ride on the Metro, and I wasn't ready to face the wreckage of my apartment just yet. Nor was I particularly interested in letting Scully see me this fucked up so I rode the Blue line back and forth until my money ran out. I got off at the Smithsonian stop without a clue as to how I was going to get home without money. Walk, I guess, it wouldn't be the first time. 

Once off the Metro, I kept moving at a frenetic pace, not totally aware of where I was headed. I remembered something that Deep Throat told me once--if a shark stops moving, it dies. Maybe I should stop moving. 

Just stop. 

Maybe I should have pulled the trigger that night instead of stopping to answer the phone. I'm still not sure why I did that. I mean, who the hell answers the phone in the middle of a suicide attempt? Eddie Van Blundht was right, I am a fucking loser. I should have let Ostelhoff shoot me. That would have been better, wouldn't it? The results would have been the same and no one could have blamed me for doing it myself. 

Instead, I shot him, then blew his face off, dragged him down a flight of stairs into my apartment and enlisted Scully's help in pretending the body was me. I couldn't believe that she actually agreed to it. Shows how desperate she was. Honestly, I never thought it would work. But it did. Scully was okay, she wasn't going to die. I wasn't going to have to face Mrs. Scully after another of her daughters died because of me. Big Brother Bill still hated my guts but what the hell, the feeling's mutual. 

So Scully's okay and my life is a big fucking joke. My life was manufactured and based on lies. I was the Consortium's plaything. Cancer Man must have died laughing. 

That thought made me laugh. I didn't want to, and I couldn't stop it. It was ugly and painful and scary. It was so clear to me that my balance was precarious and the wind was picking up. It wouldn't take much of a breeze to send me plunging over the edge. It would be a hard, hard fall. And who would be surprised? No one. Just as no one was surprised at the announcement of my ersatz suicide. Even Scully didn't argue with the plan. Everyone would believe it. No doubt they had a pool going or something. I wonder who won and if they had to give back the money when it became obvious I wasn't dead. 

Rustling leaves and the snap of a twig breaking under a heavy foot jerked my head up. I swung around, instinctively reaching for the gun that wasn't there; thus proving I wasn't as interested in dying as I thought.

It was Skinner. Wordlessly he came around the bench to stand in front of me, his dark eyes assessing and apparently not liking what they were seeing. I probably looked like I'd barely walked away from a train wreck. I certainly felt like it.

"Are you hungry?" he said after a moment. 

"What?"

"When was the last time you ate, Mulder?"

Scully put him up to this, I was willing to bet. Skinner would never ask a question like that on his own. He was more likely to ask me how long I was planning on sulking than to inquire into the state of my appetite.

"Have you ever been to Chuck's?" he continued. "It's a dive, but the food is great." He surged off the bench. Without bothering to turn around he called back, "You coming?"

On automatic pilot, I followed him. Or rather, my body followed him. My legs were stiff as I hobbled after him, trying to keep from losing him in the rapidly fading light. Meanwhile, my mind shouted dozens of reasons why I should run from Skinner as fast as I could. He'd get me to admit things I wasn't ready to admit. He was worse than Scully in that way. I could usually deflect her with an "I'm fine." I always found myself answering him, despite my resolve not to. 

The smells of fresh brewed coffee, hamburger grease, and the cinnamon tang of apple pie baking slammed into my nostrils and assaulted my stomach, causing it to groan out loud. Skinner gave me a knowing look and led me to a table in the back of the diner. As promised, the place was a dive. That Skinner would eat in a dump like this was a surprise, but I'd been in worse and at least this one smelled good. 

He kept inscrutably quiet while I ate my way through half the menu. When I finished the last of my sweet potato pie, he asked, "Feeling better?"

God save me from people who think a good meal or a good night's sleep is the solution to all my problems. If that were true, would I be a skinny insomniac with more neuroses than the DSM IV? While my stomach might have been full, my soul was still empty. Envisioning the look on his face if I said that, I only said, "Yeah."

"Bullshit," he said. "You're a wreck, Mulder. And frankly, I'm trying to decide if I should even let you come to work on Monday." 

"That's good because I've been trying to decide if I even want to go to work on Monday."

"You're not thinking of quitting."

"Why not? The X-Files are a joke. Everyone's right about me, I'm a gullible fool who will believe anything he's told. There are no aliens, the government made them up. I wouldn't be surprised to find that nothing in the X-Files is real. Just a bit of humbug to keep Spooky occupied while we dole pieces of the lie out to him a little at a time. And you know what? It just doesn't matter anymore." 

He leaned back, studying me. "How about finding your sister?," he asked finally. "Does that still matter?"

"I found her. She wants nothing to do with me." Suddenly all that food I'd eaten was threatening to come back up, and I closed my eyes and fought back the nausea.

"You found her? When?" 

That was the last thing I wanted to talk about, but since I brought it up I had little choice. Skinner was as tenacious as a pit bull, and I knew he wouldn't let it go. My only choice was to run away again. Run? Hah, I wouldn't make it three feet. I was so tired I could barely open my eyes to look at Skinner.

"I met her in a diner. *It* was clean," I said.

Skinner ignored the jibe and motioned for me to continue. "Old Smokey brought her to me. Along with the cure for Scully, it was his gesture of goodwill. He wanted me to come work for him." 

Anger made Skinner's jaw clench. That anger had been directed at me so often that I now had a way of measuring it based on how hard his jaw clenched. I'd never seen it quite that tight before. Not wanting that anger directed at me, I didn't tell him how close I'd come to taking the bastard up on the offer. "It wasn't a very long meeting. She has her own life and apparently there's no room in it for me." 

"Are you sure it was her?" 

I slumped down in the booth. My head hurt, my heart hurt. I ached right down to my soul. "I was at the time. Now, I don't know. I can't be sure of anything right now. I no longer know what to believe. Isn't that a hoot?" 

Obviously he didn't think so. But before he could say anything the waitress came over with the check. Skinner carried the bill to the register while I tried to haul my tired ass out of the booth.

Once outside, he informed me that he was taking me home. Fine by me. Energy was deserting me rapidly, leaving behind an spirit- sapping exhaustion. Not that I had a lot of spirit in me to begin with. In silence we walked to his car which thankfully wasn't very far. Before we got in, he looked at me over the roof--I could almost see his face by the nearby streetlight. In quiet, deadly earnest he said, "I hope that cigarette smoking bastard is still alive. I'd like to kill him myself for what he's done to you." 

He opened his door and got in; I stood on the sidewalk stunned by what he'd said and the implications of it. I tried to remember when I'd heard that shade in his voice before. 

Last night when he'd bitched out that cop for bruising me, it had come close. His anger was nothing short of amazing as was the fact that this was the second time in as many days that he'd come between me and a nervous breakdown. 

My mouth went dry and my heart slammed in my chest as I realized the enormity of everything he'd done for me. Skinner had put his reputation, his job, even his life on the line for me more than once. He'd held back the autopsy report that proved the body in my apartment wasn't me--a document that pointed to me as a murderer. I could have gone to jail and taken him right along with me. Surely he knew that at the time. Why the hell would he put himself at such a great risk? 

I made that "beacon in the night" comment to Scully in jest years ago, but now I realized that was exactly what he was--a guide determined to keep me from wrecking myself.

"You getting in the car or not?" His impatience momentarily returned our relationship to something approaching normality. 

We rode in silence with me obsessing over every single move Skinner had made over the last five years and finally drawing the only conclusion I could: Skinner felt about me the same way I felt about him. Why else would he have lied for me? Risked his life for me? Made a deal with the devil so I wouldn't have to?

Scary thought. I was unsure I could handle it or that I even deserved it. Wondering why on earth he would want such a fucked up person, I chanced a glance at him. Eyes on the traffic, ramrod straight in his seat, as aloof as ever as he sailed past my exit and headed toward Crystal City.

"I thought you were taking me home." I said, anxiety rising. This could be my last chance to stop this thing between us before we both made a big mistake. A relationship would be dangerous for us both, but even more so for him. He had far more to lose. I knew that; I also knew that I wouldn't have the strength to resist whatever haven he offered me. 

"Your place isn't fit for human habitation," he said mildly. "We'll take care of that tomorrow."

Too exhausted to be mad at his unilateral decision, I gave up the fight. Tomorrow, I'd fight him. For tonight I'd declare a moratorium on decision making. 

I was nearly asleep when we pulled into the garage, and with feet that felt as if I'd traded my shoes for large boulders strapped to my ankles, I followed him to the elevator. 

"I haven't furnished the guest room yet," he said as he unlocked the door to his apartment. "You can take my bed; I'll sleep on the couch."

I stood just inside the front door, swaying with exhaustion. What was I thinking earlier about making decisions? There was no way in hell I was going sleep in his bed and risk waking up with another hard on. Besides, I didn't think I could make it up the stairs; and I wasn't about to let him carry me. 

"No, no," I said, stumbling toward the sofa. "I'll sleep on the couch; I'm used to it." 

He looked dubious, but he relented. 

Contrary to my usual pattern and despite the early hour, I fell asleep almost instantly. I awoke with the first pinks of dawn that showed through the slit in the balcony drapes. Quietly, I slid open the door and stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The concrete was cool against my feet, the steel of the railing, cold. Involuntarily, I remembered another cool day and hauling Krycek off this very same balcony. The shudder that shook me could have been from the slight gust of wind that chose that moment to sweep through the area, or it could have been from the memory of that bleak prison cell in Tunguska. Choosing to believe that the shudder was meteorological in nature, I pushed Russia out of my mind. I had enough to brood over without bringing that horror into the mix. Keep it in my nightmares where it belonged.

The door swooshed open and footsteps sounded behind me. 

"I didn't expect you up this early." The morning huskiness of Skinner's voice was seductive as its warm bass throbbed down my spine, wrapped itself around me and for the moment, chased away the cold both inside and out. I turned to look at him. Mistake. He wore only a pair of old sweat pants that didn't quite fit anymore, and I could now see the body he hid under his suits. I'd noticed the way the muscles of his chest and arms strained the fabric of his shirts, but now I watched them flow under his skin as he walked toward me. I couldn't stop my eyes from following the line of muscles to the flat abdomen, narrow waist and finally, to the outline of his cock just visible through the tight cloth. 

Oh, great. Did he have to come out here half-dressed? So much for my vow not to get a hard on this morning. My mouth went dry and I jerked my eyes up to meet his. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." 

He waved away my apology. "It's just as well. We have a lot of work to do today."

I nodded and turned away from him, reluctant but resigned to the fact that I had to face my apartment sooner or later. 

Sundays have an easiness to them that I've always found unsettling. Maybe it's my natural restlessness or the constant turmoil in my life, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that Sunday is the day in which families get together, go to church or to Grandma's house for dinner. When I was young, Sunday was a weekly reminder that a member of our family was missing. 

People on the street below were filtering out of their buildings, dressed in church clothes, I imagine. It's kind of hard to see from 17 floors up. 

After the divorce, Dad made me go to church with him when he had me for the weekend. I hated it. Half the congregation had pity in their eyes while the other half were just positive I'd killed my sister and buried her in the backyard. I've never been sure which was worse.

When I looked behind me, Skinner was still there, smiling. All that smiling was starting to unnerve me, they looked so strange on his face. 

"You can be sure of me," he said.

"What?"

"Last night, you said you couldn't be sure of anything. I'm telling you that you can be sure of me."

I just stared at him stupidly until he said, "I'll go make coffee."

We arrived at my apartment armed to the teeth with mops, brooms, trashbags, and assorted cleaners. Skinner was obviously trying to take advantage of the situation. To say I was stunned by the extent of the destruction would be a gross understatement. I was too out of it that night to fully realize what I had done, but the damage was impressive. It truly was a miracle that I wasn't in either a chemical straitjacket or a real one. 

Papers were strewn from one end of the living room to the other. Glass was everywhere, and the coffee table, the chair, and several other pieces of furniture were upended, broken, or both. The no- longer-used lead crystal ashtray my mother gave me for a house- warming gift years ago was inside my computer monitor.

I set to work righting the coffee table and found myself once again staring at the blood stain, bleached out but still visible on the floor. Skinner, who had been standing by quietly while I surveyed the damage, put a hand on my shoulder. It was warm and comforting. Still, I began to pull away. Reflex, I suppose, I wasn't used to being touched. He didn't remove his hand. Instead, he tightened it slightly. I let him.

"Remember when I told you that I hated what I'd become?" I asked.

"Yes." 

"I had no idea how much worse it could get."

"It was self-defense, Mulder."

"Was it? Was it self-defense to blow his face off so I could pretend to be dead?"

His hand moved to the back of my neck, heavy and reassuring. I leaned into it, surrendering just a little. 

"You did what you had to do to survive. And for Scully. Don't allow them to make you start doubting yourself. That's what they want you to do. If they can paralyze you with doubt, then they can stop you." 

"They've already stopped me. It's all lies; there's no point in bothering anymore."

"No point?" he said. "Regardless of who's behind it or what the purpose is, there are still people being abducted. There are still people being subjected to testing. Someone has to expose that, someone has to stop them."

"Why does it have to be me?" I wasn't destined for this, was I? I could walk away, couldn't I? 

Couldn't I?

"You're already halfway there. You'll win, Mulder. Of that I have no doubt."

"I think I have enough doubts for both of us," I said. 

A long sigh. "You always sell yourself short." 

He went on, saying something about how talented I was, how brilliant. I think. I wasn't really listening. I was way too aware of his hand on the back of my neck. His fingers stroked the short hair of my nape with a slow, easy pressure. I'm not sure he was aware he was doing it, but the motion raised the hair all over my body in a not-unpleasant way. 

It was awhile before I realized he was no longer talking--just standing quietly watching me. He must have known what I wanted- -what I needed--just as he knew I'd never make the first move. He pulled my head up and fastened his mouth to mine, his lips strong and sure. No, no . . . oh, God, yes. I stepped into the shelter of his body and my mouth opened under his, inviting him in. 

*This* was sure, *this* was real. Maybe it was the only thing that was. 

Desperate to touch him, I slid my hands under his shirt, running them along the firm muscles, finally pulling the shirt over his head and off. His lips left my mouth and drifted to my throat, settling in, licking and sucking gently at the pulse point. He was going to leave a mark, but I didn't care. 

I memorized him with my hands, then with my mouth. Raised his nipples to sharp little points with my tongue. He gasped in time to my licks and pressed against my hip, introducing me to his arousal. My own desire made itself known at that simple move and I had to have more. I slid to my knees, planting wet kisses to his abdomen on my way down. 

His cock was trying to push its way out of his jeans, and I paused momentarily to press my mouth to the bulge. He groaned my name and reached down to free himself. I sat back and admired how quickly he rid himself of his pants and shorts, and what he revealed to me. His cock was beautiful--not exceedingly long, but thick and well-formed. And hard. Really hard. Damn near standing up against his belly. 

I did that to him, I realized, and the wave of arousal that thought produced left me slightly dizzy. My body rode it and let it curl in my belly, waiting. I put my hands on his hips and leaned forward, licking a wet path up the underside of his cock, the ridge tickling my tongue. When I reached the crown, I teased it with sharp nibbles before taking it whole into my mouth. He tasted good, an earthy bitterness. I slid my mouth slowly down until I had all of him and then, just as slowly slid back up and drew away with a series of nips and kisses to the head. 

Settling back on my haunches, I looked up at him. His eyes gleamed, his body was lightly covered in sweat, his chest heaved. I stood slowly and took my clothes off. When I was fully naked, his eyes swept down my length. 

"Beautiful," he breathed. And stepped forward to run a hand lightly opver my chest. Chocolate eyes so intense and his gentle, nearly imperceptible touch. Letting out a low moan, I leaned into it. Room cartwheeling, leather under my back as he toppled me on the couch, landing on top of me, his greater weight making my body sink down into the cushions. A cry was wrenched from me when he pressed his hips to mine, his cock sliding along my aching, neglected erection. 

He kissed me again, possessing my mouth, sucking on my tongue. Large hands stroked me everywhere, his hips moved against me, pinning me so that I couldn't move. I could only lie there, feel his wet, warm mouth slide down my chest, teasing my nipples while his nails lightly scratched my sides and belly. All the while he was thrusting and rolling his hips against me. My cock pressed into his muscled belly as his pressed into mine. His weight on me felt so damned good that I wanted to lie like that forever. Just him and me and this couch. 

Later, I'd need him in me, thrusting deep, carrying me screaming over the edge. But for now, this was enough. Body welded to body, skin sliding against skin. Someone was whimpering pitifully. It was me. 

He raised his body slightly and I surged under him, hooking my legs around his and gliding my hands down his strong back to grasp his ass as I thrust myself up, grinding myself against his belly. Neither of us would last very much longer. Years of wanting were finally being fulfilled. That we would end up like this had probably been inevitable. Fighting it was futile, like trying to hold back the tide.

"Mulder," I heard him pant from somewhere in the vicinity of my throat and his thrusts became wild and hot liquid bathed my stomach. I buried my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries as my own orgasm shook me. 

I came down to find him kissing me gently and saying my name over and over. It sounded so sweet coming from his lips. Neither of us made any move to get up and we laid quietly for a long time. 

"What now?" The question had to be asked, and I asked it with more than a little trepidation.

"Now, we get ourselves and this place cleaned up."

"That's not what I meant." I hate it when people are deliberately obtuse.

He kissed one down turned corner of my mouth. "I know. What do you want to happen next?"

"I'm afraid to want anything out of this."

He pulled himself up to look directly at me. "Do you think I'm the type to fuck and run?"

"We didn't exactly fuck." Now I was being deliberately obtuse. See how he liked it. 

He was on to me, though. Knew my fear, perhaps even understood it a little. He stroked my hair gently, as one would soothe a skittish colt. Normally something like that would piss me off, but coming from him it was reassuring. 

"We'll do this on your timetable. I want to be with you, but I won't pressure you. You have to want it, too."

"I do," I whispered, awed by his love--unspoken but so obvious even to someone as dense about these things as I am. Now that I had it, I'd never be able to give it up. 

He would be my strength, my guide through the storms that lay ahead. 

My beacon.

End

10/31/98

===  
Rosalita!  
The Smutty Senorita


End file.
